


Caesura

by SippingPlotting



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Time to think & Quiet to heal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 20:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11320959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SippingPlotting/pseuds/SippingPlotting
Summary: This is an off canon ending for Thomas.





	1. Chapter 1

(Note: What if instead of the final offer being from Sir Mark, with Thomas coming back to DA, the offer was from Sir Michael and he was swept away from Downton into a place that Time forgot? This is absolutely off canon, and will probably be two or three chapters at most....hopefully in the same 'tone' as that scene.)  
-  
-  
-  
-  
\---  
It was raining when Barrow returned up the path to the main door.  
Roiling dark clouds, lightening, torrential downpour--  
Just his luck, of course.

No need to go around to the rear, he thought, what with this being the only entrance with life behind it.  
And yet, still Thomas hesitated before the splintered face of it, stayed his hand a moment before committing to the act.  
(Foolish, really, for hadn't he chosen to come here?)

 

The rain was cold and soaked him completely through.  
And he felt the ache in his hand that came from dampness, his scars a barometer.  
Finally he knocked.  
And heard a faint shuffling before the old man allowed him entry.

 

Thomas shook the wetness off and tried to make himself presentable as he came though from dark to light.  
Balefully his new employer watched his efforts, saying nothing, just irritably waving him in.

"So where should I put myself, Sir Michael?" Thomas began, wary of being accused of undermining the rule of nobility again.  
(Why had the old goat changed his mind?)

 

"Is that a matter for me?" the baronet snapped. "I'm sure the butler's old rooms are still there, somewhere, though it's not a part of Dryden I've ever had cause to see."  
And Sir Michael Reresby went off on some 'important' business or other, leaving him standing alone in a pool of shadow and a puddle of droplets.

Sighing slightly, Thomas took to solving the mystery of it.  
Really not that hard: find a door-shaped looking crack in the wall of what seemed to have been the dining room (easiest place to look for it.)  
Follow the stairs up to the attics.  
Barrow would have the place to himself. 

His shoulders slumped at the thought of it, this isolation that was his destiny.  
But it was better than death, or at least he supposed so for now.

 

\---

Upon making it to the attics, he could see that at least these rooms were still equipped, since no one had thought to loot the primitive furnishings of servants.  
Just as at Downton: beds, dressers, a chair, and washstand in each--basic and serviceable.  
The entire place all beige paint and a coating of dust. 

 

Barrow opened the window for a whipping of wind, a hint of fog.  
And put down his bags.  
He breathed deeply as a bit of the rainy freshness reached in.

And without permission he lingered, taking a few moments to explore as he made his way down.  
It was a large house, to be sure.  
He was the butler at a large house, with a distinguised history...pity it was nothing now, just ghosts and himself.

\---

Thomas Barrow had never intended to end up here, of course.  
The old man was nigh onto delusional.  
That's what he thought as he left Dryden Park Estate in a huff the first time, thinking "Pity, though. It had been beautiful in its day. Sad to think of what the war had done, even to the upper classes." 

 

But as Barrow was pushed to deperate ends--even suicide--suddenly any place other than Downton looked like an oasis.  
Even a mostly empty mansion with one half cracked occupant. 

Thomas couldn't stand the pity in the (few) friendly eyes and the thinly masked impatience in the others.  
They'd all wished him well in the end, right enough, to make themselves feel good--no less unkind in their thoughtlessness.  
Even Anna, whom Thomas had thought of as someone good and pure, had cut him to the quick, telling him to think on what had brought him so low and to try to be nicer at his new place.  
(He had been nice. Their indifference and distain brought him low.)

 

It dragged for weeks.  
Until the only letter than came was from Dryden Park Estate, where Sir Michael Reresky had apparently decided Thomas was acceptable after all. 

In the end Barrow waited until he could wait no more, then resigned himself to the desolate spot.  
Anything, anything at that point.  
And when they'd offered him congratulations, he'd just smiled grimly and said all the acceptable things.

\---

By the end of that first week, Thomas had learned that his lack of pleasant conversation skills wouldn't be a problem at Dryden.  
Barring a few outburst-like lectures, Sir Michael said little and expected little said.  
He remained a gaunt, sallow old man with ramrod stiff posture, surviving on pride. 

Some of the few items of value not sold at auction were the books in the library and the old man seemed intent on slowly shuffling them in with him, one at a time and dusty, by the fire for re-reading.  
Only by careful study could Barrow begin to organize the ones in the library itself, putting back dozens of those apparently finished.  
Of the accumulated heap of knowledge currently under review in the study, he dared make no attempt.

 

Meanwhile, it was as though the entire place was one great listening silence, drawing him in a little more each day.  
Sometimes it seemed the silence had him mesmerized and he'd work on for hours, only realizing the time when he felt hunger or looked at the setting sun out the window.  
Then gooseflesh would raise on his arms in the realization that he might lose his days like this for the rest of his life.

\---

And Thomas worked hard, not just in the library, but in the upper reaches, too.  
The storage attics still had some furniture--old, out of date Victorian stuff, not in vogue or worthy of auction, heavy and horrid.  
But still usable.  
Why was it not down?  
Simply because it couldn't be moved by just the cook. 

 

Thomas began to work his agitated way 'round, avoiding his reflection in the ancient mirrors; the reflections were distorted and made him feel that there was something not quite right staring back at him though his own eyes.

In the half-silvered reflections Barrow's grey eyes had the milky blind look that stuttered his thinking to Edward.  
And as he picked and cleared, Thomas let his mind float gently away from grief, down that path to his past.  
What could have been. 

\---

He'd loved Edward, pure enough.  
Thomas had no clue of the man's inclinations, though he hadn't seemed to flirt with Sybil and every man on the ward had tried to flirt with Nurse Crawley.  
And Edward was kind to him. So few people in his miserable life were kind, fewer still grateful for any effort Thomas made.

It wasn't for Thomas to make himself small, not expecting even the crumbs of thanks.  
Just work on for the job itself, like some little cog in an aristocrat's machine.  
Edward knew that. Edward was grateful. 

And even though it may have been sheer manners, the fact that he treated Thomas like a man and not an object of service satisfied a need he didn't know he'd had.  
("How are you different," he'd asked and seemed to want to listen. Would it have changed things if Barrow had not been too afraid to answer?)

 

Even though they had to touch to do the therapy, the fact that Edward didn't flinch and pull back thrilled Thomas.  
It was a heady thing, really, to be able to walk out in public holding a man on your arm.  
Headier still when it got you approving glances and smiles. 

Thomas and Edward?  
Quite a pair, that. They do so well together.  
Even Sybil remarked on their intuitive ways and left Thomas to his friend.  
("You do so well, Corporal Barrow" and her voice held laughter and her eyes sparkled the color of deep water. "I know that I can always trust you to do a good job.")

 

After only the short while, the two men would finish each other's thoughts.  
And Thomas knew that even if it was never any more than this, he'd follow Edward loyally and devote himself to his care. 

\---

Barrow sighed and came back to himself.  
The grit of the job clung to his sweaty face and neck in spite of having opened the mansion windows wide. 

 

The bells in the corner of the room swayed slightly in the breeze on ribbons.  
They looked foreign somehow.  
Had Sir Michael been to India? Barrow wondered, at first thinking of his cousin, but then  
his imagination stuttered back to Edward again.

 

And Thomas imagined it as it should have been  
Edward with his sight restored in India.  
As real as it ever could be, the pictures in his work weary mind:  
Edward serving the Empire in a distant land, dizzying marvels all around.

(Riding an elephant, the colors around him reds and orange, yellow and pinks, making his olive uniform stand out in relief against exhibitions exotic. )  
(The air smelled of spices and Thomas could feel his mouth water and widen into a smile.)

 

Edward smiled back and waved.  
His golden red hair flew out like a halo.  
He was calling something, mouthing words that Thomas couldn't quite hear over music too loud. 

"Come here," he seemed to be calling, and he motioned to indicate the same.  
"Come join me."

 

A loud creak came as the door to the room opened and Thomas's dreams shattered like stained glass, colorful shards dropping onto the floor where they became part of the refracted window light.  
Thomas recoiled physically as melancholy filled the void. 

"It's time to get him ready for dinner," the cook announced, voice rusty as the hinge.  
"And you cleaned up as well."  
And with a nasty chuckle the old woman departed, leaving him alone. 

\---


	2. Chapter 2

-  
-  
-  
Thomas didn't know if he could stand it, and for a bit began to imagine ropes and razors.  
But he doggedly shoved them down to a locked place deep inside his mind.  
With every bit of his strength, he kept hold of his will to survive.

 

And by the second month, Thomas was surprised to find himself somewhat relieved to be at Dryden Park.  
Maybe it was just the depression lifting--he had been suicidal after all--or maybe it was the soothing quality of not being judged for the first time in his life, of having the time just to think.

 

The sun was just as bright or brighter than at Downton (bright as blond hair against tan skin) and no one seemed to keep him from enjoying it.  
It was safe for all that, and becoming tidy too. 

By then he'd realized that he and the cook were of the same cynical disposition and neither were too particular for the rules as long as the job got done.  
And Sir Michael appreciated that jobs got done.  
Of course the old boy being more friendly meant he foisted books at you, but Thomas had always been an inquisitive and avid reader.  
So impulsively he took up the challenge. 

 

And with reading came conversations (no politics, never politics, he warned himself) for the old gent was an intellect.  
And Barrow read books on the natural world, histories, Shakespeare--whatever caught his fancy at the time.  
Even sonnets.  
Which of course reminded him of Philip.

\---

Philip had always plied him with books and Thomas sometimes wondered if the duke would have bedded him at all if it weren't that he matched some hero from a poem.  
("You are my love, the Adonis of my heart. You are everything to me," he'd said.)

 

But none of that mattered to Thomas for Philip was his 'first.'  
Inclinations weren't actions and though Thomas had been attracted to others before, he'd never known what to do or been easy enough in his mind to do it. 

 

The very few bawdy stories he'd heard were about women, after all. And touching yourself wasn't touching someone else, even if the idea was the same.  
The pre-war generation wasn't given over to promiscuity like their Edwardian parents.

So that first night being caressed by a lover drove him to such an extreme he'd have done anything for Philip.  
Listening to silly poems that seemed to be duke's way of giving compliments?  
No problem at all.

 

For after the poetry, the dinners, the caresses, came passionate and rough kisses, moans and whispers.  
And finally a filling closeness as their bodies came together, hearts beating in sync as he was pressed to the mattress.  
It was as though he died each time and came back to Philip above him, as his heaven. 

 

They'd lie there in each other's arms, sweaty with the smell of sex about them until to his dismay the large clock in the hall tolled the hour that meant Thomas must go back.  
How he wanted to smash that clock.  
Incensed--murder it like a living thing standing between him and his lover. 

But of course there were many things standing in his way with Philip, not the least of which was the duke himself.  
Even his frantic bid using Lady Mary was for naught.  
Philip cared more for himself than anyone else....not true love by any measure. 

 

The beating of wings against the window brought him back. It was just a memory, he mourned. 

And Thomas sighed at the perfidy of poetry and dukes, looking at the latest book Sir Michael had suggested, knowing that thoughts of Philip were as brown and dead as its pages.

And he gave himself a furious shake and worked on. 

\---

Now clocks at Dryden didn't force one back to work. Clocks at Dryden were almost non-existent. 

In fact, Cook was especially grateful when Barrow got two small mantel clocks to working again, because until then they literally had no way of judging the passing of the hours other than guesswork. 

It was both the most depressing mansion he'd ever seen and the most liberating one.

 

\---

Sir Michael had, repeatedly, told Barrow about his family lineage past and recent.  
At first Thomas let it go past him, river over rocks, but bit by bit he began to listen and learn.

Why do I care who this old sod entertained? Or where his sons were killed?  
(The last made Thomas especially sad, since the first two were lost at battles with all too familiar names.)

 

It was the youngest son who'd died elsewhere--or just disappeared if you believed the old man.  
He was coming back, Sir Michael was sure of it.  
It had taken him all this time to even mention his youngest--he at first spoke only of the two sons.  
But bit by bit Barrow came to learn of the young man, how Sir Michael rejected the boy, crossed his name from the family Bible. 

 

His anger had driven the boy to run away.  
And now the old man regretted it. 

 

The baronet sometimes wept for the regretting of it, though as a gentleman he tried to withdraw and hide his tears. (Barrow would find him in hidden corners doing it.)  
His son would come home, Sir Michael was sure, and they'd welcome him back.  
He'd had the attorney draw up the papers.  
It would be a grand day then, wouldn't it?

Not knowing what else to say, Barrow agreed.  
A wonderful day. 

 

But the stories of the son, who was his age, reminded him of how he'd left things with his own father.  
How his father had died without ever making things right between them.  
Thomas had no one and regretted he'd never had the chance of a homecoming. 

For Sir Michael's son, he hoped better tidings. 

\---

One day in his prowling, Barrow uncovered the door to the greenhouse half open beneath a curtain of some riotously flowering summer vine.  
His footsteps echoed as he entered the empty buildings.  
Something rustled, running through dried leaves along the edges. 

 

The greenhouses had become a shambles, but after some reading on the mechanicals involved, Thomas got the workings back in repair.  
He and a boy from the village (a deaf young man who sometimes came to cut grass) got the glass plates fixed or covered.  
And Cook helped, working in the morning dew to put in vegetables, since even an old crone could be motivated by promises of better food on her plate.

 

Beyond a small initial outlay, food could be had for free just by saving seeds and cuttings.  
The soil had been fallow long enough to be fertile again.  
Hours were spent there in fruitful labor, just Thomas listening to the background song of croaking frogs singing from a nearby bog. 

Better than vegetables even, work on the greenhouse enthralled the old man.  
It was as potent as a charm.  
His son--also named Thomas--had been involved with plantings and cultivated them with extreme care.  
The greenhouse was his special place, left to overgrow even before the collapse of the main house, left forgotten like Thomas Reresky himself.

 

And Sir Michael began to intermix Barrow with his son, wrapping the identities of the two together, like some entwining vine in that greenhouse garden. 

 

Absolutely, Thomas wasn't fond of this. He'd always been most protective of his rank and identity.  
But like all things at Dryden Park, it soon seemed more trouble to argue about than it was worth.  
There was too much to do and too much to learn and the days passed like the fast beating of brilliant hummingbird wings. 

And in these emerald moments, Thomas sometimes dreamed of Jimmy. 

\---

He'd never been closer to another human being than he had to Jimmy Kent.  
And he hadn't understood how love could make you actually willing to die for another person's safety until the boy came along. 

Conventional wisdom had opposites attracting, and physically that was the case.  
Jimmy every bit golden and kissed by the sun, husky voice and flashing smile.  
He was all practiced flirtation, that one. 

 

When Thomas had made that first disastrous move--going into his room, being helpless of his impulse to kiss the young man--Kent had doubled efforts to prove himself a 'red blooded ladies man.'  
("Looking very tasty yourself there, Ivy.")

 

But he'd done it in places that guaranteed he'd be stopped or in ways so off-putting that even Ivy had to protest.  
(Tell a village girl you'd bought and paid for her with a theatre ticket? Predictable failure, that.)  
Thomas was shocked at the Valentines to Anstruther, a second one after the first didn't pay.  
But though it absolutely broke his heart, he knew that if Jimmy could be with a woman, he'd be better off in the world of the 1920's.

 

The thing he realized even later, looking back at Jimmy's attempts: chances were that the golden ladies man was as inexperienced as he'd been that first time with Philip.  
Just because he talked a good game didn't mean he'd played around.  
("Two of a kind, very sure of ourselves on the outside.")

 

Barrow could almost see Jimmy, picture him in the shivers of sunlight in the greenhouse corner.  
Imagine him smiling along side him as he worked through the day, or let the tears come as he shared his worries and regrets of times past.  
And in his head he had many conversations with his friend, turning to his right and looking down a bit in a close approximation of where Kent should be standing.

 

It comforted Thomas to dream so.  
His last letter from Jimmy was years past and he couldn't be sure he'd find him even if he tried to visit.  
But his memories were always available.  
Companions at Dryden Park.


	3. Chapter 3

(Note: If you haven't already, please take a deep swallow of your Pimm's and suspend ALL disbelief.)  
(Oh, and major character death.)

-  
-  
-

Two years of this passed.  
And the old cook died and had to be replaced by a new one--who had never heard of a Thomas Barrow and only called him "sir" when she dared call the devilishly handsome man anything at all. 

She was a silly young thing and he avoided her when she seemed to become attracted.  
(Thomas well knew what girls like her were like, once fixated.)

It was easier to leave her alone.

\---

And so Barrow read philosophers and poets, grew currant bushes and a peach tree, and walked amid the other herbs and fruits in the now lush greenhouse garden.  
He and Sir Michael looked at the stars of a night through an ancient telescope, rather small, but good enough to make out constellations and planets. 

They set it up by a fountain, marble sadly cracked, the central statue a tribute to Chronos.  
The bottom was a shattering of fragments now, but the gurgle of the spring laid background to their nightly mutterings.

 

It was like some sort of odd dream, the days passing by with deceptive languor.  
And his nights were filled with pleasant images for a change--much different from the lurid and torturous ones at Downton.  
At peace. Finally at peace.

\---

Early one day a knock sounded heavily at the front door.  
And they all stood still. Thomas, for the moment, couldn't think of what the sound might be, it had been so long since anyone came.  
The knock sounded again--Sir Michael's lawyer had come to call.

Now when the solicitor entered, Thomas tried to explain and was honest on his identity.  
But the old man waved him off, agreeing with Sir Michael, as he had done for decades now.  
The visitor had an ample belly and a hearty laugh and seemed to overfill the room.  
He ordered Thomas away, saying that he and Sir Michael needed the time.

 

And it was without Thomas that the two old men took care of their papers.  
Sir Michael insisting Barrow was his son? The solicitor had drawn the adoption.  
Sir Michael insisting Thomas would carry Dryden back from the ashes? The solicitor drew up the will.

It was done. Orders carried out without question.  
A trust from the sale of Reresky Place would cover the death duties--so the plan was thought out in advance.

 

The two old men shook hands and were almost overcome at the thought, for the solicitor, too, had seen his legacy torn asunder by the great war.  
Why not the better dream of a new young man to take up the flag on Sir Michael's behalf?  
If it was a comfort to his tortured soul, it was worth it. 

Besides, Barrow was doing more for the old man than his blood sons ever had, for they'd taken from him in times of plenty.  
Thomas was giving him care in a time of oppressive need. (A "position of trust" after all.)

\---

Another year passed, and Barrow managed to coerce the village boy into bringing down the rest of the comfortable items for the old man's rooms.  
The heavy pieces still held a richness of taste in spite of their lack of fashion.  
They'd closed off the attic, for leaks, but had several floors of solid stone between to keep them dry. 

Ivy growing up the walls in a drapery of leaves hid the cracks. And roses threw climbing branches near the entrance, perfuming the air and making everything beautiful and enchanted by nature's soft touch. 

\---

It was in the fourth year of Barrow's isolation that Sir Michael got pneumonia and died.  
If Thomas had been a superstitious man, he might have known any efforts to save him were useless for there was an owl outside the baronet's window, hooting softly.  
Sir Michael had heard it and known it was time to give up the ghost.

 

But still a modern man, Thomas Barrow dragged his training as a medic from the recesses of his brain. He could see the problem and tried to help his employer.  
Moreover, against Sir Michael's fierce protests, Barrow dared go for the doctor, only to have him admit he could do nothing.  
Sir Michael was, after all, a very old man, already in very poor health. 

 

And he died with Thomas at his side and was not afraid, thinking his beloved son was there for him, forgiving him.  
The old man was at rest. 

\---

After, Thomas went back to Dryden worried his days there were over and frightened for what to do.  
But the solicitor's assistant came to the mansion, calling him 'sir,' acting in deference.  
Burial arrangements were at hand, if Thomas approved, he said.  
Barrow didn't know how to respond, so he merely nodded. And when the man handed him a sealed packed, he simply took it and saw him out.

 

Later, by the light of a candle stub, Barrow studied the papers, reading and re-reading to make sure he had it right.  
For he couldn't believe Sir Michael would do this, in spite of treating him so well. He'd left him his land and his name. (Of the two, Thomas knew which one the old man valued more.)  
Dryden was his.

(An emptied house, true, and the coal and shipyards gone.... but timberlands and acreage, farms and a village, all with the duties paid from the trust. As a rich man, he was poor. As a poor man, it was the Midas hoard.)

 

And the old solicitor suggested in an attached letter that with this he could perhaps marry an heiress, not to particular of a title and willing to settle for a 2nd Baronet.  
It was, of course, tomfoolery. The title could NEVER be his.  
Adoptions weren't allowed for in the passing along of titles.  
Barrow protested the idea somewhat testily....but with no one there, he argued with himself.

 

Would he really think to live such a lie? Actually become someone else to keep a title?  
Morally the old man had claimed him and Barrow came to know that he really didn't care if the king had a cuckoo in his nest of nobles.  
Maybe he (and the old solicitor) were republicans after all.  
But the danger of it all, just to grasp hold.

 

Now to change name without the title? That was a far easier decision.  
Thomas had no family of his own who would object.  
"Thomas Barrow" disappearing without a thought would bother no one.  
(No longer even Thomas.)  
  
No one would notice.  
No one had visited.  
Not even Phyllis.  
Not in four years.

 

It was his own personal (cracked and complicated) happy ending born of dirt and sweat and sorrow.

By letting go of everything, he'd win everything back and more.

 

The future suddenly opened its doors wide, letting Thomas back into the world.  
And what he'd thought was a cursed life became promise,  
born from his time at Dryden Park.


	4. Chapter 4

(Note: And this is where I actually started...thinking what if Thomas won the lottery, what would he do? And whether you think he's hetero/latent/bi, you know Jimmy is the first one he'd go see and try to help, what with 1929 being so rough.)  
-  
-  
-  
Christmas 1929,   
Returning to the 'Real' World  
-  
-  
-  
Thomas exited the train at Kings Cross, with a bit of his old smirk on his face.   
Posture straight, hair neatly combed, grey eyes calculating.

"Because I feel like it," he'd thought as he made his plans. (Would logic even begin to apply in a situation like this?)  
"And because I need to be true to myself, even if I'm the fool."

The London solicitor had been happy enough to see him and referred to him by his new name. Thomas, of course, made no replies to suggestions of titles or marriage.  
He'd just smiled his inscrutable smile, learned after years of practice.

\---

The city had gone to crash while he'd been holed up in the mansion.  
Noise. Chaos. Loss.

Some of the mighty had fallen, though mainly the low fell lower.  
Very, very rarely was the world 'Just.'  
The former servant still was amazed at his luck.

\---

Eventually, Thomas stood outside of a dilapidated brick building off a narrow, seedy street.  
"Surely not," he thought, checking the address twice to make sure there was no mistake.   
This was it; the last letter Jimmy'd sent years before had come from here.

A disreputable looking cat prowled by, giving him an evil green glare.  
"Well, at least there probably aren't any rats," Thomas said, resolve beginning to fail him.  
He licked his dry lips and forced himself up the steps, knocking on paint-peeled wood with the flat of his hand.

 

He waited.  
No one came for several long moments, and he pounded again.  
"I hear you," Thomas called in what he hoped was a commanding tone. "Whoever you are, I need to ask a question."

Finally he heard the scrape of the lock being released and the latch being raised.   
A middle aged blond opened the door, a woman, quite slatternly in appearance.  
"Whatever it is you're selling, we aren't buying," she began. 

 

"No, I had this address for a friend of mine. But we've lost touch."  
The woman just stared at Thomas, not giving an inch in her silence.  
He stared back. That was a game at which he was master.

"My friend's name is Jimmy Kent. I can show you his letter, but it's been a while. If he's here. I'd like to see him. If he's moved, I'd like to find him."

 

"If my cousin owes you money, it's no business of mine," the woman told him roughly, starting to close the door.   
"No, wait," This time Thomas's voice did hold a note of command. He pushed against the door and held it.   
"I can show you we're friends. Why would he write to me otherwise?"

"Why does that fool do anything?" she groused, but seemed to be considering.  
"He plays at the Black Boar on Fridays. I suppose you can find him there."

Thomas tried to get out a word of thanks, but the door just slammed on shut. 

\---

To live in a place like that was disturbing, but so was to work in a place like the Black Boar. 

Even Barrow, who loved smoking, who gave every impression of being an evil dragon, had trouble breathing once inside the pub.  
He muscled his way to the front, trying to signal for the server so as to ask about Jimmy Kent.   
But of course he didn't have to. 

Part way through he could hear the piano.  
Struggling against the lack of tuning, Jimmy was still pulling a song from the upright.

 

His fingers were flying up and down the keyboard, and Thomas finally relaxed and smiled.   
The way to the piano was less crowded than toward the alcohol, a bare minute took him to Jimmy's side.   
Thomas reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder, but stopped just short.  
Somehow feeling his presence in spite of this, Jimmy looked up, eyes widened, keys crashed.  
"Bloody hell, Thomas, what are YOU doing here?" he yelled.

 

A few of the nearer patrons, irritated by the disruption offered catcalls on the reunion.  
But neither (Barrow) or Kent cared.   
Jimmy made a rude gesture to the men and motioned Thomas toward a hallway, leading back to a storage area.   
There, perhaps, they could hear each other talk.

 

"God, you're a sight for sore eyes," Jimmy said, still overwhelmed. "But why aren't you back at Downton?"  
He paused and began to look embarrassed. "I told you I'm not much of a writer, but I did send a few. It's just hard since leaving." And his voice dwindled. 

 

"Well, I've come to visit the week, if you want to know. I've a room already," Thomas took off his hat and raked nervous fingers through his hair. "I came by to talk, but since you're working, I'll wait and we can talk when you're done."

"I'm done when I say I'm done," Jimmy said, grinning up at the taller man.   
"They let me play for the tips the crowd gives me. The manager provides a pint now and again, but it's not much going tonight.  
"By God, Thomas, it's good to see your face." And Jimmy laughed out loud, and Thomas chuckled along, glad that the haunted look had left his friend's face almost immediately upon their meeting.

 

"Follow me, then?" Thomas asked. "We can go back to where I'm staying and have a bite and a talk?"  
Jimmy nodded, willing to agree to anything just to keep hearing that voice from a happier past.   
He'd missed his friend, sure enough.   
He hated to have Thomas see him here, but he loved that his friend had come.

\---

When Barrow had picked his room, he hadn't thought much of how it would look to Jimmy.   
He'd actually not known if he'd find the man, or if he did if they'd talk at his address.   
But now he was glad that he'd spent the cash wisely, had a decent place, but not too fancy.   
The proprietress had promised him food if he wanted it and so he and Jimmy could relax and have an uninterrupted chat. 

 

"I've come into an inheritance. That's why I came. I thought you should know where I've moved, and I wanted to see if there was any way I could use my good luck to help yours along." That was the boldest of the statements needed. 

 

Once Thomas got that out, he waited until the amazement came and partially left Jimmy's face. "What? How?"  
Kent began to stutter out the expected questions, and Thomas began to chuckle again. 

"I know. I know. But you'll have to stop talking and give me a turn so I can tell it front to back."  
"You know I've no relatives that claim me, so I'm sure you're as stunned as I was, but I did a good turn for someone and it finally worked out for me."  
"Usually I get punished when I'm nice, but this time it came out right."


End file.
